


TMA One-Shots and Warmups

by postapocalyptic_cryptic



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Autistic Michael Shelley, Chatting & Messaging, Cuddling & Snuggling, Existential Angst, F/F, Fluff, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Gerry and Michael were engaged, Haircuts, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, Lesbian Daisy, Lesbian Helen Richardson, Lesbian Melanie King, M/M, Michael Shelley Being a Dork, My Fixation With Hair Touching That Totally Has Nothing To Do With How Lonely I Am, Nonbinary Daisy, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, One Shot Collection, Other, Pining, Pre-Canon, Pre-Season/Series 01, Season/Series 04, Short, Stimming, Tags May Change, Texting, Trans Character, Trans Gerard Keay, but very light, implied suicidal ideation, in a weird spirally way, no one in the archives is cishet, wlw avatars and avatar-adjacent mfs rise up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26605294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postapocalyptic_cryptic/pseuds/postapocalyptic_cryptic
Summary: What it says on the title. No update schedule, no long works. The chapters are disconnected. Any specific warnings will be in the tags and in the notes of the chapter they belong to.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 16
Kudos: 73





	1. A Creepy, Cold Sort of Feeling (Sasha, GerryMichael, pre-canon)

**Author's Note:**

> No warnings. Pre-canon, Sasha catches the tail end of a fight between Gertrude and Gerry.

Sasha cracks the door open and peeks through. Gerry is frozen mid-gesture, staring at her with red eyes and a crazed look on his face. Gertrude seems unbothered where she stands beside her desk. 

“I was just wondering if everything was-”

“Yes, yes, everything is fine, Sasha. Do come in and have a seat, won’t you?”

She almost asks why, and she can see the same question forming in Gerard's mouth, but it seems they both think better of it. She walks in and eases the door shut, but opts to stand against the wall rather than sit. 

Gerard gives her one last look, and there’s something in his eyes that’s almost like a warning, or maybe a plea for help. Then he turns his gaze back to Gertrude. 

“Why?” he asks, and his voice is wrecked, completely shattered. “Why him?”

“Gerard, all I can say is that maybe if you hadn’t told him…” She leaves the question hanging, but it seems to be enough. Sasha watches as Gerry breaks apart in front of her, expression falling and eyes going distant. A fresh tear slides down his cheek.

Gertrude clears her throat and Gerry seems to snap back to reality, shaking his head and wiping his face. “You know what, I- No. No, that’s bullshit, and you know that’s bullshit. You’re- You’re not fucking-  _ gahh.”  _ Gerry breaks off with a strangled yell, turns on his heel, and leaves, slamming the door behind him. 

Silence rings through the room. 

Gertrude sighs and straightens up a stack of papers on her desk, sitting back down behind it. Sasha opens her mouth to speak, but Gertrude beats her to it. “Sasha, you’d do well to learn from this experience.”

“Learn… what, exactly?” 

“Learn that sometimes, you will have to make choices that no one else around you will want to understand, even if they are capable of doing so. Occasionally, it would do people well to  _ let  _ things  _ go.”  _ Gertrude fixes her with an intense stare that, somehow, feels as though it is coming from all angles at once. Sasha stands and moves towards the door, thoroughly unnerved. Just as she lays her hand on the knob, Gertrude speaks again. “And Sasha?” She freezes. “It would do you well to steer clear of any… workplace romances from this point forward.”

She slams the door behind her and does her best not to run down the hall back to her office. A cold chill settles around her even there, even through her warmest sweater, and she can’t help but imagine a thousand eyes boring down through her skull and into the deepest parts of her heart. 


	2. A House For Two (GerryMichael, obnoxiously sappy, no plot head empty)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Indeterminate timeline. GerryMichael, discussion of Gerry and Michael's relationship and lives. Content warning for death wishes of the Gerry Keay sort.

“What?” Michael pauses the television and turns to look at Gerry, swinging his feet up onto the couch cushion between them.

“Huh?” Gerry blinks, startled out of his reverie. Michael looks really nice tonight, all big eyes and soft curls and freckles. He looks comfortable. Stable.

“You were staring,” Michael laughs. “So what is it?” Michael shifts around until he’s got his knees up and his chin rested on them. 

Gerry takes a breath, placing his sketchbook on the coffee table. He hasn’t been drawing for a while, really. Too caught up in just… watching. “Nothing. Just thinking.” He reaches out to take Michael’s hand, flips it over and traces idle patterns as he talks. Words are hard and feelings are harder, but they’re easier split between two. He’s learning that, now. “It’s just… five years ago, I thought I was going to die before I turned thirty.” Michael makes a little noise, his brow furrowing. “I was so _angry,_ all the _time,_ and I didn’t know what to do with it. I was angry and sad and hurting and I didn’t think the world was fair. I didn’t see my place in anything except fighting and searching and serving other people’s version of success. I never would have believed I could have something like this. I mean, I’m sitting on the couch with my fiance, watching a documentary about _the polar ice caps,_ ” Gerard laughs. Michael pretends to pout, pulling his hand away in mock horror.

“And here I thought you liked the ice caps!” He picks Gerry’s hand up again after a moment, quieting and just looking into his eyes. “I know what you mean, though. I know this isn’t what you envisioned for yourself, and I’m glad I could help you find out how to be happy with yourself.” Michael pauses for a moment, looking like he can’t quite decide what to say next. “You helped me, too, you know,” is what comes out. Plain and simple, but Gerry understands.

He remembers meeting Michael, coming into the Archives that first day. Michael was Gertrude’s assistant even then, friendly and over-eager and awkward. Gerard had had no idea what to do with him. At first, he thought Michael was a minion of one of the powers. The Stranger, maybe, because Michael didn’t seem to have any life outside of the Institute. It wasn’t like Gerry’s own situation, a refusal to talk about his private life, it was just… an absence. Michael Shelley had a Bachelor’s degree in library science and some computer knowledge. He’d worked at the Institute for a year and a half. He was single. Yes, he was an only child. No, he didn’t talk to his parents. No, Michael, reading and knitting don’t count as riveting pass times. 

Eventually, though, he realized that Michael was just lonely. Not _Lonely,_ just… lonely. Lost, maybe. Hopeless. He didn’t know how to make any more progress because he felt like he could just barely cope with what he had now. Gerry learned that Michael had his own fair share of trauma and mental problems. Together, they learned how to get up every day and make something of their lives that wasn’t just surviving.

“I know. I remember.” Gerry sighs. “I love you, Michael Shelley.”

“I love you, too, Gerry Keay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up on tumblr @postapocalyptic-cryptic-fic!


	3. Every Time You Turn Around (Helenie, s4, fighting about turning into a monster)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helenie, s4. The existential terror of being unmade. The astronomical anger of running in a hopeless race. Helen tells weird jokes and pines in a Helen way.

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

Melanie is curled up on her cot, staring at Helen with bloodshot, sunken, sad eyes. “God no, what do you take me for?”

Helen doesn’t know much about people, not anymore, but she does know that they are supposed to get certain amounts of sleep every night. She remembers that, in snippets of stressful nights and achy days and a life that never seemed to wait for her to catch up. Melanie should sleep more, she knows this. What she does not know is how to make it happen.

Helen moves to sit on the far end of the cot. The fabric does not give beneath her, something which used to give her pause. Now, it’s as normal as laughing. “Why?”

Melanie huffs a laugh, cracks what looks to be a real smile (and Helen is an  _ expert  _ when it comes to fake smiles). She scoots over until her shoulder is pressed against Helen’s, and she only sinks through the not-arm a little bit. “You’re very blunt, did you know that?”

“Really? You know, I’ve heard ‘terrifying,’ I’ve heard ‘monstrous,’ I’ve heard ‘oh god please don’t kill me Miss I have a family please you can’t do this,’ but ‘blunt?’ No, I don’t think so.” Melanie can hardly breathe for laughing by the time she’s finished, and Helen can’t help but trail off into giggles with her. Melanie makes it very easy to remember high school sleepovers and the girl she was going to marry last July. 

Melanie sobers after a few minutes, and Helen gives her a few more to catch her breath before saying, “So you  _ didn’t  _ sleep last night, I haven’t forgotten that. You ought to do more sleeping, you know.”

Melanie sits up again, shoulders slumping. “It’s fine. I’m fine, it’s just one night.”

Helen is literally the entity of lies and deception. “Hmm.”

“Yeah. Hmm.”

There is a long moment of silence between the two of them. Melanie is angry these days, and neither of them quite know what to do with that. She’s like Jon, caught between two phases of a life she no longer feels is her own, and it’s tearing her apart. Of course, Helen has strong opinions on how that could be fixed, but she has been informed in no uncertain terms that that particular method is “off the fucking table, Helen, I can’t believe you would even say that.”

“You know, I still think you’d make a rather fine extension of the Slaughter.” That’s not what she meant to say.

Melanie stiffens beside her, face contorting in a mockery of control. “We are  _ not  _ having this conversation again, Helen. I already told you why we can’t do that. Why I can’t just - can’t just  _ give up. _ ” 

“I was merely suggesting-”

“No! Stop suggesting! I don’t want to hear it, I don’t want to hear that it’s easier! I don’t want to be some extension of something.”  _ Not like you,  _ she doesn’t say. They haven’t yet had that particular conversation, not yet.

Helen takes a deep, echoey breath. “Melanie, I don’t want to force you into anything. That’s why I’m suggesting this. Maybe, it would be better to make this choice while you still can, before something else makes it for you.” Helen doesn’t know quite how to say what she’s thinking. Logic and communication are a bit beyond her reach these days, but even Helen Richardson would have struggled to explain that choosing to survive does not make you weak, and having to change does not erase who you are. “Making the choice to become inhuman does not make you a slave. It just makes you inhuman.”

“And, no offense, but I don’t want to be inhuman. I don’t know how you live with it, I really don’t. This fucking sucks, and I’m not even halfway there. I just - I just want - I want things to be normal again, God damnit!” Melanie’s voice breaks over angry tears. Helen will try one more time, because she cannot leave her like this. 

“This is going to kill you if you let it.” 

“Then let it. And get the fuck out of my room.”

Helen does not know how to fix this, so she leaves. She leaves Melanie in tears on the cot. She leaves Melanie to another sleepless, painful night of mental warfare. She has failed, and she doesn’t even know what succeeding would look like.

* * *

Helen Richardson was good at comforting people. Helen Richardson could take one look at you and tell you that boy wasn’t worth it, that company didn’t deserve you anyway. She had all the brainpower she needed to hold on to everyone’s problems for them, to help them unwind them like balls of yarn and knit them back into shape. Now, Helen can barely think through a single conversation. She can’t follow complex lines of reasoning, not when they’re put out in the air like that. Inside her halls, they’re shapes and colors and spirals, things she can follow to their indefinite cores and solve like mazes. But then, as soon as they hit the real world, they melt like snowflakes into so many sad, muddy puddles. 

This Helen cannot help, so instead, she watches. She watches her friend crumble away into nothing in the same way she herself would have, and there is nothing she can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr @postapocalyptic-cryptic-fic! Don't be afraid to drop a comment


	4. Firsts (Trans Gerry cutting his hair in the bathroom)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerry takes some scissors to his hair. It's very cathartic. I enjoyed writing this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very minor tw for very brief description of self harm

Gerry remembers cutting his hair for the first time. The frantic pain, the itch bubbling up from inside his chest and trying desperately to come out his fingertips. Dysphoria in that moment was an acutely physical thing, an all-encompassing panic screaming for him to tear himself limb from limb and scratch long, bloody lines in his skin. He couldn’t take it, something had to give.

Hair. His hair was in his face and sticking to him with sweat and tears and only adding to the crawling in his skin and that was something he could fix  _ now now now  _ with a pocket knife and kitchen scissors, so to the bathroom he went. Gerry took a moment to stare at himself in the mirror, to examine the line of his face. He was skinny, sure, but his face was still soft. Round, almost. He wondered what he really looked like to other people, people who didn’t have to look through the haze of dysphoria and dysmorphia and tears. 

Enough of that. Nothing he could do to change his bones. Hair, on the other hand, that had to go. He gathered up a handful of it, snarled and greasy and streaked with brown showing through the black, and started hacking. It was mesmerizing, almost surreal. The  _ shink  _ of the scissors and the quiet crunch-rip of hair and the wheezy wet stuttering breaths he tried to keep steady. A transformation. Everyone should have this experience at least once. He felt like he was being reborn.

He looked up to see something he could almost recognize as his own face. It moved when Gerry moved, it had little pieces of hair where Gerry itched. It was framed in choppy, tangled hair that hung down in limp chunks and made him look almost… masculine. Presentable in a feral sort of way. Something in his chest loosened up a bit.

Now for part two. He pulled off his hoodie and jeans, careful not to look down. He didn’t wait for the water to warm up, instead letting the chill bite at him until it warmed to near-scalding. He pushed his head under, relishing the way his hair just  _ ended  _ in his hands. 

The shower itself was short, just a quick dip under the water to wet his hair and work shampoo and conditioner through it. Gerry let the conditioner stay in when he got out, toweling himself off as quickly as possible and wrestling his way back into his clothes. Then came the actual combing of the hair.

It wasn’t quite as bad as he thought it was going to be. A lot of the knots had been further down and were now sitting on the floor next to him. The remaining tangles took maybe fifteen minutes to brush out, and then it was another quick rinse. He didn’t bother getting back in the shower, just dunking his head in the sink and calling it a day. More towel drying, and then he was done. 

Oh, God, he was done.

What was he going to tell his mother?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gender? Don't know her. Gerry? Open for projection.  
> I actually really like how this came out and I hope you guys did as well.  
> Find me on tumblr @postapocalyptic-cryptic-fic or hit me up in the comments!


	5. Sort of (GerryMichael, Fluff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruh there's literally nothing here. It's just soft.   
> Also prompt is "Sleep in your car if you don't like it" from tumblr user @katy-girl-2 's one line prompt list (https://katie-girl-2.tumblr.com/post/159599221353/one-line-prompts)

“Gerry, this is the worst vacation I’ve ever been on,” Michael whines, flopping down onto the twin bed. “It’s crusty in here.” 

Gerry bites down on a laugh, sitting next to Michael and giving him a playful shove. “Well, you can sleep in your car if you don’t like it. Besides, I thought the near-death experiences already took it off the vacation list. And, you know, the being on payroll.” 

Michael rolls over, pressing his face into Gerry’s thigh. “Mmm. No. Crusty sheets is worse. Cuddle me.” 

Gery laughs, tangling his hand in Michael’s loose curls and ruffling them. “You need to brush your hair,” he chides. 

“Just did like, three hours ago. It’s not my fault it’s like that. It was braided and everything.” Michael noses further into Gerry’s sweatpants, trying to escape the fingers tugging at the worst of the knots. “‘S a menace. You’re lucky yours is straight.” 

“Hmm.” Gerry takes a moment to pull his own hair into a bun before settling into a more comfortable position, turning the television on and starting in on Michael’s fledgling rat’s nest. It sort of feels like it’ll take an hour and a half to detangle. It sort of feels like Michael’s already falling asleep.

Gerry’s sort of okay with that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yee I'm taking a break from accomplishing to bring you Soff™️  
> Hit me up below or on tumblr @postapocalyptic-cryptic-fic, where you can ask me to fill more prompts from this or any list!  
> Have a lovely day!


	6. Genderfucked (Daisy and Jon s4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just two nonbinary people with binary pronouns staring at each other

The conversation comes late one night on the floor of what’s become Daisy and Jon’s bedroom. In true Daisy fashion, it’s a sort of nest, with a pile of pillows and blankets for her bed (and Jon’s, on bad nights and when they just want someone to hold) and books and notebook paper spilling off the old-box-turned-bedside-table. It comes in the middle of a card game, in the wake of a desperate attempt not to Know…  _ anything.  _ And if he can’t Know, then he must Ask. But he can’t Ask, so he just asks. 

“Daisy, what…” She glances up at him when he trails off mid-sentence, unsure of how to proceed. He doesn’t want to offend her, but he doesn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable, and  _ goddamn,  _ she might be the only other person he’s ever met who understands. So he asks. “What pronouns do you use?” 

Daisy’s eyebrows shoot up and Jon stumbles through the beginning of an apology, but she shushes him. “No, no, it’s fine. I don’t mind, I was just taken aback, that’s all.” She pauses, looking into the near distance and chewing her lip. Jon takes the moment of quiet to observe her. She’s tall, a full head taller than Jon, and she’s leaner than she was before Choke. Even so, she’s solid in a way that most women aren’t. Her icy blonde hair is cropped close enough to see little red marks on her scalp. ( _ Where she scratches at the acne from her shamp-  _ **shut up.** ) She binds on occasion, but so late and so comfortable, just the two of them, she’s got a sports bra on instead. Jon crosses his arms over his own chest, so thin he feels the lines of his ribs. 

After a long moment, she looks back to him. “She and her, I guess. That’s what I’ve always gone by.” 

Jon nods. “But…”

“But.” She sighs, leaning back on one arm. “But. There’s always a ‘but.’” Jon knows the feeling. The ‘but,’ the little thing about him and Daisy and so many others like them that makes cisgender people uncomfortable. The ‘and.’ “I mean, I’m not a lady. I don’t know about being female or a girl or any of that, whatever term you put to it, but I’m not… that. Just she, because being she is easier than trying to explain.”

Jon frowns, nodding. He’s always felt somehow “not enough” to say anything, and he wonders if Daisy feels the same way. 

“What about you?” she asks.

“Same as you, I suppose. He, I mean. With the ‘but.’” Jon reflects back on moments through time, moments spent sitting in front of mirrors trying to make it make  _ sense.  _ But it wouldn’t. And it won’t. Because there is no word for things like Jon and Daisy, not now and not then. They’re just different. 

“Do you ever think about going by they/them?” he asks her.

She blinks slowly. “Yes. It wasn’t really an option in the force, but… yes. I’d give anything to be just a lesbian, you know? My only connection to womanhood is my love for them, which would make me something like she/they, I think.”

Jon can’t help the hand that comes up to flap at his side. “Yes, exactly. Romance is the only possible way to have a connection to gender. Everything else is irrelevant.” 

Daisy chews her lip, leaning back on her hands. “It’s like… it’s like everyone else has this idea of what they’re supposed to be, but you just can’t see it, no matter how hard you try.” She glances over to him. “You’re bi, right?” 

“Mm-hmm. Ace, too.” 

She nods. “Huh. Gender is fucked up.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just think they're neat.  
> Hit me up below or on tumblr @postapocalyptic-cryptic-fic as always!


	7. Obligatory s1 Text Fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why did I do this  
> Also it's preseries, so Martin's very new to the team

Tim: Just witnessed Jon slap himself in the face

Tim: ive never seen a man look so defeated

Martin: ???? why did he do that?

Tim: idk he’s just built different

Sasha: He’s alright, Martin, it’s like a cross between a stim and a tic

Tim: ADHD bitches be like

Jon: : /

Tim: fuckin mood

Sasha: where are you guys lmao

Tim: we are in a bookstore on the way back from that statement followup

Jon: They have Terry Pratchett in here

Tim: hence the aggresive happy flapping

Sasha: saying you read Terry Pratchett is literally the same thing as coming out

Sasha: I’ve never met a cishet Terry Pratchett fan

Tim: I’ve never met a cishet

Jon: ……

Jon: I’m trying to refute that with someone we work with and I can’t think of anybody

Sasha: neither can I

Sasha: Martin help

Martin: I don’t know, I hardly know anyone yet!

Tim: fair

Martin: wait none of you are cishet?

Sasha: absolutely not

Tim: a;fodsajhgf;hkjgf;jsnkgfbfv NO

Jon: no

Martin: oh

Martin: well, me neither

Jon: we’re aware

Sasha: JON!

Jon: what?

Sasha: nothing, that was just very…

Tim: true?

Martin 🥺

Tim: oh my GOD

Tim: Martin you did not just

Tim: he really said 🥺

Martin: I don’t understand

Martin: is that bad?

Tim: Jon just spit out his coffee

Sasha: I love it here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really just out here not doing my homework  
> Hmu below or @postapocalyptic-cryptic-fic on tumblr


	8. ADHD Jon and Autistic Michael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neurodivergent solidarity in an AU that lives only in my mind

Jon’s not usually one to invest himself in other people’s relationships. He’s rather disturbed by most PDA, especially considering its tendency to create wet mouth-noises that make him irrationally angry (thank you, ADHD, that’s completely uncalled for). Gerry and Michael seem to be the exception to this rule. 

Well, in truth, it’s just Michael. Michael Shelley fascinates Jon for no other reason than his quiet determination to be himself. Gerry gets lumped in there because, not only does he not mind, he actively  _ encourages  _ Michael’s quirks, something Jon can’t quite wrap his head around. 

Jon does his best to keep himself in check. It’s a habit learned the hard way and reinforced by years and years in public school and surrounded by people who’d rather not deal with his eccentricities. Jon sits on his hands when he talks. When loud or  _ bad  _ noises come too close to him, he clenches his jaw and focuses on tapping his fingers together in a specific order in his pockets. He carries earbuds so he can listen to the same song over and over without disturbing anyone. He bites his lip when people bring up his favorite topics. 

Michael Shelley is a completely different story. Jon hates Michael at first, hates the jealousy that burns like a hot poker through Jon’s throat and into the base of his skull whenever he sees him. The thing is, Michael is nothing like Jon, but they’re exactly the same. Michael Shelley flaps his hands and scrunches his nose when he talks about math. He hums on a single, quiet note when conversations draw on too long. He hits his palm against his forehead rhythmically whenever it strikes his fancy. He bounces up and down on the balls of his feet when giving presentations and doesn’t bother hiding fidgets in his pockets or palms. He doesn’t worry about sounding “right” when people talk to him or looking them right in the eye. 

Jon knows Michael’s autistic just like he knows that he’s got ADHD. He knows that he can’t help the things he does any more than Michael can, but Jon’s never had a Gerry. Jon’s never known someone who takes his hands in their own when he’s agitated and says, “Here, pick at my nail polish instead.” Jon’s never been with someone who lies on top of him with their whole body weight without being asked or acting like it’s weird. 

Gerry doesn’t just tolerate Michael, he adapts to him. He lets Michael ramble and only ever cuts him off when he’s repeated the same phrase about a thousand times in the last five minutes. Even then, he just says, “Michael, could you please stop that?” calmly and without judgement. He doesn’t roll his eyes when Michael eats macaroni and cheese for the third lunch in a row. He giggles and scrunches his nose back when Michael happy-stims. Michael Shelley is easy to deal with. 

Jonathan Sims is not. 

He doesn’t even have it that bad, really. The ADHD wouldn’t be a problem if he could just get himself under  _ control,  _ God damnit. The adderal helps, but some days, it feels like it’s less for him and more for the people around him. It’s not enough. Nothing’s enough. 

Jon isn’t enough. 

Today, of all days, he doesn’t feel like he’s enough to get out of bed. His face itches and his mind drags and every little noise enrages him. It takes him forty five minutes to get dressed and ready and he doesn’t remember more than ten of them. Gerry’s already in the driveway, though, texting him to get in the car. They’re going shopping today, Gerry and Michael and Martin and Jon. A sort of double-date (not that Martin’s dating you why would he want to date a mess like you so broken not  _ enough _ ) and Jon doesn’t think he’s going to make it. 

Sure enough, it’s only ten minutes into the ride when the music and the overlapping conversation and the smell of the air conditioning get to be too much. Jon can’t quite get a hold of himself before squeezing his eyes shut and cringing away from it all, bringing a hand up to cover his ears. Surely, Martin will notice. He’s sitting right next to him, how could he not?  _ Martin’s going to think you’re weird. Why would he do that? He knows you have ADHD. He’s not mean to Michael. Because you’re different, Sims, you’re not- _

“Jon?” A warm hand lands on his leg and Jon opens his eyes. Martin’s watching him, eyes wide and concerned. “Are you alright?” Then, up to the front of the car, “Gerry, could you turn the music down, please?” 

“No, Martin, I’m alright, really-”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Sorry, Jon.” The music turns down and some of the static in Jon’s ears goes with it. 

“Better?” Martin raises his eyebrows, inquiring. 

For a moment, Jon openly gapes at him. Then, quietly, unwilling to break the moment, “Better.”

“Good.” The hand on his leg finds his own. 

They stay like that for the rest of the trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon not everything has to be so hard

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @postapocalyptic-cryptic-fic


End file.
